#the face journey here is sublime

[flametrashiraarchive]

Reader teaching Haganezuka how to eat that kittykat and fuck it properly because we all know he's a virgin still uwu

(bonus points for size kink, implied age gap [reader 20s])

(bonus points and cookies for Haganezuka being so focused, listening very intently to the puss eating lesson but gets super into it and tunes out reader as he begins to figure what to do and he can't stop himself from overstimmulating reader, which has reader smacking his head so he finally lets go)

Argh yes okay here we go! I love this beautiful nutjob and I got carried away. (I left the age of the reader ambiguous because personally I am old as shit, but I think I get cookies still for the overstimmulating?)

Also... I really want to write a part 2. I want us to take care of him after the events of season 3 because I just know that once the adrenaline wore off this poor man was hurting so bad.

Anyway, enjoy!

UNBREAKABLE, UNQUENCHABLE.

F!Reader x Hotaru Haganezuka

Content Guidance: cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, overstimulation, not stopping when reader tells him to (reader is still into it though)

Minors DNI.

"I don't make swords for civilians," the swordsmith said, his voice deep and his tone final. He turned away from you, continuing his journey down the mountain path, the soft thud of his footsteps accompanied by the gentle tinkling of the windchimes hanging from his hat.

Your heart sank for a moment before you steeled your resolve and renewed your determination. It was never going to be easy and you'd mentally prepared for rejection. This swordsmith was infamous for his unbending resolve and temper. 

Running a step ahead of him, you turned to stare into the wide bug-eyes of his hyottoko mask. "Please, Haganezuka... I need a nichirin blade."

He continued walking as if he expected to simply pass through you. "No."

"But it's the only thing I can use to kill demons."

He paused. "Demon slayers kill demons. Not civilians. No sword for you."

"I am a demon slayer, just not an official one." You brace yourself for a telling off. Usually whenever you admitted to going rogue you were met with lectures about the proper way to do things and told to leave things to the demon slayer corps— but their numbers were dwindling and you'd never quite figured out breathing styles well enough for your sensei to agree to send you to final selection. Still, hacking and slashing got the job done with the right blade. "Please, Haganezuka. I had a sword with your stamp on it before. It was the best blade I've ever had and—"

"Where did you get it?" His voice was strained as if forced between gritted teeth.

"I found it..."

"SOMEONE LOST MY SWORD?"

"Yes... maybe, but I found it. It served me well and I really want another."

He turned his face away from you slightly, making the windchimes ring. "What happened to it? Did you lose the sword too?"

"No, it broke."

You could've sworn he was vibrating. "m-m-m-m-m-m-my SWORD???"

The elongated lips of the mask poked your cheek as he stepped right up against you. His haori concealed the true size and density of his body, but with him standing so close, you could tell he was muscular and incredibly strong. He was also apparently unhinged, but then again, you reasoned, what was life without a little zest?

“YOU BROKE MY SWORD??”

You'd been pre-warned that his swords were the key to winning him over, so you kept your voice level as you emptied your arsenal. "Your sword was the finest sword I have ever seen. It was an honor to wield it, Mr. Haganezuka. Not even the blade of a hashira could compare to the sublime craftsmanship of that sword. I dream about that sword." You placed a hand on his chest, feeling the heat of his body pulse against your palm as you added in a lower, more sultry tone. "And I've dreamed about meeting the artist who forged such a perfect sword for a very long time."

His chest rose sharply as he pushed out the only response he could manage; a strained, breathless grunt.

Taking his broad, calloused hand in yours, you gazed into the eyes of his mask. "Mr. Haganezuka... please make me a sword?"

The trees swayed overhead, the sigh of the leaves the only break in the utter silence between you and the swordsmith.

"Mister Haganezuka?"

The windchimes tinkled. "Tell me your name."

You told him, and he repeated it back, slowly and carefully as if trying it out.

The mask's mouth moved to your nose as he stared you in the eyes. "Mine is Hotaru. Do you need a husband?"

"I... uhh..." you stammered, suddenly feeling very warm as the heat of his burly frame pulsed against you. "Do I need a..."

He carefully removed the hyottoko mask and with it, removed every particle of air from your lungs. Ravenette hair threaded with silver, amber eyes which glowed like the forge, dark, severe eyebrows which slanted downward as he awaited your answer. He was... beautiful, treading the fine line between painfully pretty and achingly rugged.

"Yes." You said firmly. "Yes I do need a husband."

-------------------------------------------------------

Two days later you were married to Hotaru and about to spend your first night at the Swordsmith Village. Ordinarily, outsiders had to undergo a lengthy initiation process to ensure the village remained a secret, but the village chief fast-tracked your application and damn near pulled you through the gates himself.

It seemed he was just as keen as you were to get your marriage to Hotaru underway. In fact, the whole village pitched in to ensure your wedding went ahead quickly and without a snag.

“Thank you for marrying Hotaru,” the village chief whispered while you were in the middle of your vows. “You have no idea the relief you have brought to the village. We were beginning to lose hope. He has never shown any interest in anything besides swords. Once Hotaru finds something to focus his attention on it's nigh impossible to tear him away from it.”

Before you knew it, you were a wife, married to a man so introverted he spent the majority of your wedding day hiding behind a tree, peering out at you as you chatted to the villagers. In fact, he only came out from behind the tree when someone walked over to congratulate him on the marriage, and even then it was only to find a different tree to hide behind.

"Hotaru..." you sighed adoringly as you slipped away from the crowd to stand beside your husband in his hiding spot. "Are you unhappy?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm happy."

"Ah... You just prefer to be alone?"

"Yes. With you. I want to be alone with you."

He was a strange man, but he melted your heart with every other word. And Gods, he was beautiful. You yearned for him like no other. You craved him.

"Husband, for my wedding gift, will you—"

"No sword for you," he said firmly. "No fighting demons. No risking your life. You are my wife now and it's my job to protect you, even if that means protecting you from yourself. So no sword."

You couldn't help but smile. It seemed Hotaru's dedication to being a husband was as intense as his dedication to smithing.

"I promise, no more demon slaying, but I wasn't going to ask about the sword."

"Oh?"

You leaned in and whispered against his ear. "I was going to ask you to take me to bed."

His orange eyes snapped to your lips as though he couldn't quite believe what you had said. He cleared his throat and tried to speak but only managed a choked grunt.

Silence descended between you until he finally found his voice. "I don't know how to do… those things."

"I can teach you."

He didn't speak. He simply took your hand in his and led you away from the wedding party and deep into the woods. After a minute he looked back at you and picked you up, carrying you against his burly chest.

"Where are we going?" you asked.

"A place where we can be alone. They won't find us."

He carried you a little further, to a small, seemingly abandoned work shed. Inside there was a small forge and smithing tools, and a small living area with a bed and basic amenities. The air was thick with the lingering tang of smoke and molten steel.

"Is... this our home?"

Hotaru shook his head. "This is where I come to work in peace when I really need to concentrate.''

He set you down carefully beside the bed and waited. Except, he wasn't simply "waiting." Hotaru's eyes drank you in, gazing at you with soft reverence. He was so big, so intimidating and by all accounts completely lacking any kind of social skills, but you had won his heart entirely. He was softer than molten steel for you, and more than willing for you to hone and hammer him into the shape you desired him to be.

"Teach me," he said. "I'm ready."

You nodded, your heart thrumming with the anticipation of what was to come. "Okay. Would you like to use your fingers? Your tongue? Or your cock?"

"Yes. All. Teach me how to use them."

Marrying this strange man had definitely been one of your better decisions.

Closing the space between you, you wrapped your arms around your husband's neck and gazed into those fiery eyes. "Well, we should start with a kiss. Do you know how to do that?"

His brow knitted. "Yes of course I know how to kiss."

"Good. Then kiss me, Hotaru."

He leaned down and pecked your cheek.

"Was that good?" An expectant look lingered on his face, faltering by the second. "I... that's what you want, isn't it? Do you want more? I can give you more."

Gods, the man was completely uninitiated.

Still, you couldn't help but smile as he eagerly peppered your cheek with little kisses; dozens of them, soft and dry and so sweet. His brow remained furrowed in concentration throughout, and you remained patient as he expressed his devotion. But when they inched closer to the corner of your mouth you turned your face to press your lips to his. 

The moment your lips touched, he froze, eyes wide as you gently and slowly pulled him into your kiss.

His lips were still and stiff beneath yours as he adjusted to the new sensation. And then they softened. Gradually, tentatively, he followed your lead. His lips crept across yours, careful and slow like he was learning the steps to a new dance and didn't want to tread on you.

You licked the seam between his lips, easing your tongue through the gap as he inhaled sharply and he brought his hands to your waist.

And then something inside him snapped. A restraint cut loose.

He wound his arms around you, lifting you off the ground. The strength in his arms was breathtaking; forged by decades of tireless labor, and now wholly dedicated to you as he pushed you down onto the bed and slipped his tongue into your mouth, exploring this newfound pleasure.

Your kisses awakened a voracious appetite in him and before long he was devouring you with heated passion, barely giving you time to breathe. It was as if he had gone his entire life without intimacy, but once the dam had cracked it was impossible to stop the flood.

His tongue stroked yours again and again as his tough hands skated up the length of your legs. When he reached your knees he granted your tingling lips a reprieve, kissing your throat as he pushed up the skirt of your wedding dress and squeezed the tender flesh of your thighs with a wanton groan. 

"My pretty wife," he growled as you shifted beneath him, craving his touch. "Tell me how to make you feel good."

You parted your legs, pulling your skirt up all the way to reveal yourself to him. A sharp intake of breath expanded Hotaru's chest as he looked down at your pussy. A muscle in his cheek danced and his grip on your thighs tightened as his eyes filled with a look of pure hunger.

"Do you want to touch me?" you asked, your breaths coming in shallow bursts as anticipation coiled in your belly.

His answer was barely a whisper. "Very much." He swallowed hard. "May I?"

"Please... please do," you whispered, your need for him drowning out the rest of the world. It was just you and Hotaru, and nothing else mattered. 

The sound of his shaking breaths was the only break in the silence. His hand left your thigh and he gently brushed his fingertips along the edge of your folds. 

“Soft,” Was the only word which emerged from his lips as he stared and explored the shape of you. His orange eyes were focused, his perpetually furrowed brow somehow even more severe. Hotaru was lost in concentration, entirely focused on mapping the curves and ridges of your cunt.

You lay there on the bed, letting him find his bearings. His gentle exploratory touches sent shivers through your body. Those rough, calloused fingers touched you with such care and attentiveness. His eyes snapped back to yours every time you made a sound or breathed a little harder.

Hotaru was a devoted craftsman– his hands finely tuned tools– and they were dedicated entirely to your pleasure. He found your entrance and pushed a finger into you, watching intently as your pussy clenched around it.

You sighed in pleasure. "Gods, Hotaru, you're making me so wet…"

"Is that good? Am I making you happy?"

"Yes. That's good."

"Hm," he muttered, as if filing the information away. "A wet wife is a happy wife."

A sharp gasp escaped you as he nudged the hood of your clit with his thumb and his lips curved into a smile. 

"You like this, don't you?" He hummed pensively and circled your clit, spreading your wetness.

Squirming beneath him, you nodded as the heat on your cheeks blossomed. "Yes, Hotaru. Keep doing that."

Gods, those rough hands. They sent jolts of pleasure surging through your body as he lavished attention on your clit, fascinated by the way it swelled as he worked with dogged determination. He added another thick finger to your cunt, stretching you deliciously.

A quiet groan emerged from him as you began to fuck yourself on his fingers, hard and fast as he rubbed your clit. He watched you intently, his lips parting in sync with your cry as your first orgasm of the night rocked through your body.

"Oh look at you, my pretty wife with your sensitive little bead." He moved down your body, lowered his head and nuzzled your clit with his nose. 

"Ho-taru…"

The wet heat of his mouth closed over your tender bud, pulling another cry from your lips. 

"Ah! You like that too," he murmured as he knelt between your knees, his long, dark hair spread like strands of seaweed across your thighs. 

"Yes. D-do it again… please… use your tongue."

“My tongue?”

You sucked in a breath as he licked your clit with the tip of his tongue, tasting your essence. 

He groaned. "Mm~ fuck, this is good." 

"More… please…" 

In response to your demand, he raised his hand to press his thumb against your lower lip. "Show me how to lick you well."

Gods, this man. You took his thumb into your mouth, showing him exactly what to do, licking the tip of it as if it was your clit. He groaned as you lapped his thumb, his eyes fluttering shut as his jaw clenched. 

"That feels… huh…" He bit back a groan before burying his face in your pussy and replicating the motion on your clit.

Thank the Gods he has the foresight to take you away from the village, because the sounds he pulled from you were unholy. He was eager and so receptive to your lessons.

Hotaru put everything he had into eating your pussy; the slick, sucking sound of his mouth and his hot, wet tongue accompanied by your desperate cries. With every passing moment his confidence grew, pumping those thick fingers into you and curling them against your walls, his mouth and fingers working in tandem to give you more pleasure than you ever expected. 

As he pleasured you, he ground his hips against the mattress, groaning as he pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth. It was too good, too intense. Your senses were flooded with him; the sight of that beautiful man devouring you, the acrid scent of the forge, the lewd wet sound of his mouth on your cunt. And Gods, nothing had ever felt so good before. 

Hotaru was born to forge swords and eat pussy, and he did both with unbreakable focus. 

You sucked his fingers and he sucked your clit, groaning as he voraciously lapped the sensitive nub, driving you higher… higher…

An immense wave of pleasure crashed through you as you reached your peak, the force of your orgasm making your legs tremble. His name tore through you like a cry to the heavens, his answer a soft moan which vibrated through your core as he kept on licking. On and on, lapping at your pulsing clit as you gasped and bucked your hips against his insatiable mouth.

"Ho-taru… you did it… you made me–"

Taking his fingers from your mouth, he slung a heavy arm across your belly and continued eating you out, unrelenting, pulling another choked cry from you. Hotaru was drunk on you, on the taste and the knowledge that he was pleasing you; groaning, grinding his hips against the mattress, breathing in the intoxicating scent of you as he fluttered his tongue over your overstimulated clit.

The village chief had told you his focus was unbreakable, and now that attention was dedicated to your pussy. He was lost in you, wholly devoted to pleasuring you. You tangled your fingers in his hair, torn between needing respite and craving more. 

He propelled you from your second orgasm right into your third. Intense pleasure drove your head back against the pillow as you screamed in ecstasy and torment, your pussy throbbing beneath his lips as your nectar ran down his chin. And still, he licked you with an unquenchable thirst.

"Hotaru! Ho- oh it's too much.” 

He hit a spot inside your cunt which made the world shatter around the pair of you, sending you careening into another climax which turned your blood to liquid steel. “Too much! I can't!" You swatted at his forehead, smacking him with your fingertips as you wriggled out from beneath him. 

Your husband stared at you, dazed and breathless, his lips glistening with your slick juices. "Did… did I do it right?"

You gasped for air, trembling down to your bones. “You did it perfectly, Hotaru.” 

He pulled you into him and kissed you. You licked the taste of your desire from his lips, swallowing the low groan which rolled from his chest. His lips caressed yours with deep, undying passion, his hand dropping to the bulge tenting his hakama trousers.

“Let me take care of you now,” you whispered into his ear as your hand joined his, cupping his cock and making him moan. “Lie back for me, my love.”

He did as you asked without protest. It was true that you wanted to take care of him and give him as much pleasure as he had given you, but in a more practical sense, being on top of him allowed you to have control. You were already so fucked out, and from the feel of things–from the girth and weight of it through his trousers– control was definitely going to be necessary.

You stood from the bed and undressed as he gazed up at you, languidly palming his cock in his broad hand and drinking in the sight of you.

“Such a lovely wife,” he whispered, his orange eyes heavy with desire.

“And I have such a handsome husband…” you replied as you undressed him, revealing his big, muscular body inch by firmly hewn inch. He was a mountain of a man, and Gods, there wasn’t a thing you would change about him. “A handsome husband who pleases me well…” You kissed him, gently pushing him back and straddling his hips. “And who makes the very best swords in all the world–”

“Ohh…” He groaned, gripping your hips as you brushed the fat tip of his cock against your pussy. “Say that again.”

“Hm? That you’re the best swordsmith in the world?” You eased the top inch of him in, letting your body adjust to the sensation. “That your swords are works of art?”

“Gods, I want you,” he hissed, baring his teeth and gazing up at you from the pillow. A deep, longing groan emerged from him as you inched your way down his length. “You… you are…so warm… so wet… beautiful.”

You skated your hands over the plain of his abdomen, taking him deeper, your back arching as he stretched you even at that slow pace. When you finally reached the bottom of his shaft, you were breathless, tingling at your core. Hotaru was even less composed than you. 

The swordsmith growled, bending his knees to slide his legs up and down the mattress, fighting the urge to fuck up into you. His cock twitched inside you as you rocked forward to kiss him, your breasts pressed against his burly chest, his rough hands skating up your back. 

“I love you, Hotaru,” you whispered before rocking back to start riding his cock. 

“I–ngggh ohh… ohhh!” he groaned, eyes widening, fingers digging into your hips with bruising ferocity as you bounced on top of him. His control slipped almost immediately. 

He fell apart, groaning and thrusting up into you with a loud moan. His eyes screwed shut, his face flushed scarlet, and he trembled beneath you as his cum flooded into you, spilling out onto the base of his cock.

Pulling you down into an embrace, Hotaru held you in his arms, his heart thrumming beneath your ear. His big, broad hand stroked your back as he kissed the top of your head and his cock softened inside you.

After his breathing returned to normal, he gathered his senses long enough to ask, “Do you need more, my love?”

“I’m more than satisfied,” you said with a smile. 

He was asleep a second later. 

You lay there, pinned by his arms, crushed up against this strange, wonderful man you called your husband, and there was nowhere else you would rather be. 

#hotaru haganezuka #kny haganezuka #haganezuka x reader #haganezuka smut #demon slayer haganezuka

[inkyquince]

anyway, durge having weird ritual blood sex with gortash. Shout out to @angrelysimpping who sent the prompt from the sex magic book they were reading because we're both insane.

characters. lord enver gortash :3

content warning. dark urge reader. pre-tadpole era. gortash being viciously down bad, because he's very willing to have sex with durge while they're covered in blood and being watched by the cultists. exhibitionism. blood play. gore mention, along with murder. 2.6k words.

"Howerever, he also added a powerful dose of Tantrism by suggesting that magical work should be conducted in the nude, with the ritual use of a flail, and that rites should be led by a High Priest and High Priestess who would literally or symbolically couple at the climax of certain rituals." The Book Of English Magic, Carr-Gomm. P. 

Gortash was not one to be summoned. Summoned, sent for, demanded to show up with haste at the whim of someone else. While he might schmooze with the Duke and hastily head over when Ravengard demands him to come talk, he is a man not to be controlled and demanded things of. 

But you always were such a delicious thorn in his side. While others, like Thorm, would try to pry it out, getting their fingers bloodied as they struggled to grip onto it, Gortash relished the sting that came with every movement. The ache, the soreness of the skin struggling to reject the barb, the trickle of blood leaking down his side. He adored it. The cushy life he led in Baldur’s Gate had softened his skin, despite the sulfur of the hells soaked into it. You were refreshing. A tinge of pain that was inflicted on him in the House of Hope by the boatload, except this time, the claws that had raked down his back as a punishment had turned into something deeply pleasurable for him. 

So when you sent for him, he’d never dream of keeping you waiting. Your letter mentioned something about needing his help with a ritual of Bhaal’s, so while he was looking forward to seeing you, he was quietly hoping that you weren’t about to blood sacrifice him or something. It would put a damper on the plans you two shared. 

Gortash knows the path down to Bhaal’s temple well enough by now. He almost basked in it, enjoying the looks the other worshippers would shoot him as he made his way down, some questioning, some openly hostile and a select few viciously jealous. But this journey down was different. No stray cultists, whispering about guts and garroting. No weird little butler scuttling after him. 

Nothing.

Except when the chanting reaches his ears. 

The low, rhythmic voices, all whispering, all culminating into something strange, something wrong, something that makes the hair on his neck stand up on end. Gods, he really hopes he isn’t a sacrificial lamb here. He refuses to spurn an invitation from you, so he continues down, down, down, the chanting getting louder, louder, louder. 

Entering the main sanctum, he finally sees all. Bhaalists crowding all the stairs leading down to the platform with the sacrificial altar, with no sign of you. Just a deep, dark, pool of blood, big enough for someone to swim in. Even more worrying. 

His presence didn’t go unnoticed. The cultists were already parting for him to make his way through, and closing in behind him, barring him from exiting. The whispers quietened for just a second before resuming, even louder as he was prodded, like cattle to continue down. Before too long he stood on the platform, his palms itching. Just when he was about to demand answers, the chanting stopped, the disconcerting whispers cutting off into dead silence immediately. 

The blood in the pool quivered and a body breached the liquid, coated in a deep, slippery crimson. 

Fuck. 

Gortash always knew you were sublime in red. But you were completely covered. Dripping blood as you step out of the pool, you don’t even push away the blood painting your face, not when you open your eyes and focus on him. 

The entire room seemed to drink you in, your naked form, glazed with the very essence your father urged you to spill. It was only a few seconds of silence before the chanting resumed, but it was different this time. As if the previous whispering had been a chorus of begging, for you to emerge, but now? It was a demand, for the ritual to resume, for it to be completed, to taint the room further. 

All the air in Gortash’s lungs had stilled, but when you came closer, it rushed out all at once. Your naked form was always deeply divine to him, no matter how many times he bedded it. While he paid for his whores and some married ladies adorned his bed, he often got tired of them, seeing them as run through, and no longer exciting. But you? Fuck. Hells, even your bloodied, nude form was already getting him hard. 

“Sorry for the vague invitation.” You murmur, as if you two were at a soiree that he just got the invitation for. “Needed someone for this and I don’t think Thorm can get it up at his age.” 

Gortash’s lips twitch, but your bloodied fingers curling around his wrist silenced his snarky retort. Nothing to say, not when you lead him to the altar. 

“What-” 

You hushed him, pressing a finger against his lips and leaving a crimson mark in its wake. 

“Don’t worry. Just a ritual for each decade that passes. Better me than Sarevok, believe me, even if he has run out of his own spawn to give daughters to.” You roll your eyes but push him back, against the altar, forcing him down as you straddle him, staining his clothes. 

He’ll never throw them out. 

The altar was no soft bed, and while he wasn’t a squeamish man, the strong smell of blood was clouding his head. It was at this angle, that he noticed the cuts along your side, looking like marks made by a flail, even though the blood you were drenched in weren’t from your own injuries. Even the dozens of eyes trained on the two of you, there was a delicious string of excitement, pulling his spine taut and tight. 

Gortash was no Bhaalist, not when he followed Bane, so while he was no stranger to certain rituals, he was unused to ones of this… Variety. He made a note to himself that he should read up on them, just in case he was about to have a Bhaalspawn of his own somehow. Not that there has never been an attempt to baby trap him in the past, but this was… Different. 

You, naked and bloodied, on top of him with wild, dark eyes, the chanting of some, excuse his phrasing, cultist weirdos echoing in his ears. The only thought his mind could form as you dragged your hand over his lips, down his throat, was that if this was a ritual purely for Bhaal, he did hope He wasn’t aware that he was the one getting hard underneath his favorite spawn. 

But that seemed to be the point. You gave him a dangerous smile, blood slipping in between your lips and staining your teeth, similar to when you’d bite him during sex and come away with crimson painting your tongue. As per usual, you had no patience for his belt, instead opting to barely loosen it and slip his trousers down enough for his cock to spring free. Thank the Gods he had, a self admittedly fat, “pretty” cock. Though, he doubts if he didn’t, you wouldn’t have bothered with him beyond your first tryst. But being humiliated in front of the dagger happy zealots was not high on his list of priorities. 

His busy mind screeched to a halt as you slowly began to pump his cock, even as he was hard as hells. Your touch, even just a nudge or your fingers brushing, felt like lightning, like something otherworldly was deigning to caress his very mortal skin. Your eyes, so delicious and darkened drank in his expression, his slow, shallow breaths as you continued to practically fucking play with him, like a mouse under your claw. 

“Don’t tease me.” He murmured, low and throaty, just for the two of you and you just smiled your wicked grin. 

Instead of heeding his request, you leaned down, as if to press a kiss to his chapped lips, and he raised his head to meet your kiss, but instead of something soft, he felt your teeth bite down. Splitting his bottom lip and letting his own blood trickle into your mouth. Even with just a few seconds of your lips against his even with the pain of being bitten, he missed it the second you pulled away. You firmly pushed him back down, but the ache from slamming his head against the stone altar was muted, when you refused to let up on massaging his cock, the pleasure seeping into his veins like poison. 

“Fuck.” He hissed through his teeth, wanting to lean his head back and shut his eyes, but there was something deeply magnetic lingering in your eyes that made it impossible for him to ever look away. 

You yourself slowly grinded against his thigh, enjoying the way the Chosen of Bane squirmed like a rodent caught in a trap. Shame he was such a charming rodent, one that nosed against your ear and chittered oh so invitingly. Your older brother hated the scurrying little things so, he used to take you aside as a child, and whisper to you exactly how to catch them, and then make them squeal. But this rodent, with his nice dark coat and fiendish eyes, the one who squirms so nice in your hand? He seems a bit too cute to crush. 

Especially with the way he was panting low and hard, his tongue dragging over his teeth. Blood smeared over his mouth and chin, and his clothes were stained similarly. Delicious. 

“Just let me fuck you already.” He gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into your bare, bloodied thighs. 

“Oh, that’s cute.” You murmured, low and heady in the way he adores so, at least in his room with the servants sent home for the day. You felt his cock twitch in your hand at the tone. “This is about restraint. Submission.” 

Gortash hissed through his teeth again, but said nothing, just drank the sight of you in. You finally took pity, with his hungry, desperate eyes that you usually only saw at the meetings, with maps strewn across the table, as he talked about the plans for the future. It’s also a look that he used to give you when you two first met. Raising your hands to his lips and kissing the knuckles, eyes boring into you. It’s a look that grew in intensity each time you met, until the night he got you alone finally, dragging his hand greedily over your side as he leaned in to kiss your throat. You’d thought it would end up diminishing but it never did. It quietened at times, but he had the look of an addict waiting for his next fix. 

Finally shifting up, you pressed his leaking cockhead against your hole. Enver could feel it slicked with blood, but his mind raced with thoughts about you getting ready for the ritual, writing out the letter inviting him down as you slowly fingered yourself, lubed up to your knuckles and imagining him. Or Thorm, since apparently he was also an option. Thank the Gods that the sight of you dipped head to toe in blood was far more arousing than that intrusive thought, otherwise he might have gone soft. No doubt if you two were ever having sex and he lost his erection, you’d butcher him right then and there. 

No, just his cockhead slipping inside of you had him struggling to concentrate, the chanting beginning to rise in volume again. Gortash couldn’t even figure out the words, it just made his head spin. 

You just watched him try to breathe slowly and evenly as you enjoyed the feeling of his cock twitching inside of you before you slammed your hips down, making him bottom out inside of you. His cock was your favorite, no doubt about it. Out of all the ones you’ve seen, flaccid and puckered in death as your followers stripped them of their belongings, hard and ready for the select lovers you picked out, unaware that they were bedding a spawn of Bhaal, his remained the best. Maybe it was because he was one of the few madmen ready to stick their dick in the God of Murder’s child, maybe it was because it was curved in a way that hit just right deep inside of you. Or maybe he was one of the few men that had the talent to back up their bragging mouth. 

Gortash couldn’t help but thrust upwards, into you, basking in the whorish sounds of your moans. Your fingers dug into the section of his exposed chest, beginning to ride him in earnest, as if there weren't the cultists watching without heat to their eyes, as if watching you do your daily chores. Wasn’t exactly a turn on, Enver thought grimly, though if you would just let him finally take you to the brothel and allow at least the prostitutes to admire the amazing work you two put into having disgustingly dirty sex. 

You rode him roughly, just watching as he struggled to look away from you, his own blunt nails digging into your thighs even more, as if trying to make sure to keep you there. Blood coated his cock as he thrusted up into you the wet slapping of skin against crimson glazed skin echoing throughout the room, the chanting drowning out your shared sighs and moans. 

Fuck, it felt too good. He was dying to fondle your chest, pinch your nipples till they were all sore and puffy and so cute. The only downsides that he could only be half sure that you wouldn’t cut off his hand for touching anywhere other than your perfect fucking thighs. The blood was slowly drying on you, the glimmering sheen giving way to a dark matte look, pieces flaking off. You looked fucking perfect. 

Gortash was clinging onto the edge, concentrating on not cumming before you did, but you wouldn’t be one of his favorite pieces of ass if you couldn’t see through him as if he was made of glass. With a nasty smirk, you leaned down again, mid bounce and kissed him right on the mouth, swearing the blood from his bitten lip. It was too much at that point. He was not some virgin who came from kissing, but fuck. Fuck. 

He arched his back, pressing his cock deep inside of you as he came, filling you up till it began to drip out, along your bloodied thighs. You sighed, low and soft, tensing up around him to the point the poor fuck was seeing stars. The chanting slowly eased off into the casual hum of conversation, as you slowly slipped the Lord out of you, letting his cum spill out freely. 

The cultists dispersed among themselves and back into the alternating halls as Gortash slowly regained his breath and sat up. 

“A little head’s up would have been greatly appreciated.” He grumbled, hiking his trousers back up and tucking his softening cock away. 

“And miss out on the chance of you chickening out?” 

“I’d never.” He finally sat up and watched as the cum slipped down your legs to the floor, mixing with the blood to make a soft pink color. “... But if I did fail to show, any particular person you’d have picked?” 

“Probably would have grabbed a random guy. Like the one who loves to skin people while they’re dying.” 

Gortash quietly made a note to have that certain one jailed for some other thing as you stretched and glanced back at him. 

“I need company as I bathe.” 

You, of course, would never ask him to give you company as you washed yourself of all the blood and cum, but who was he to say no to such an appealing command? 

#quincewrites #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #enver gortash #bg3 gortash #gortash x durge #dark urge

[creative-type]

The Romanticism of One Piece

I’m always amazed by how Oda has managed to stay thematically consistent for more than two decades while writing a thousand plus chapter epic about silly pirates having fun chasing their dreams. One Piece, at its core, is about the dawn of a romantic adventure, and its been that way since volume one, chapter one.

But romance is one of those terms whose meaning as shifted over the years and is drastically misunderstood. So what is literary romance, and how does One Piece fit within its framework?

Well buckle up, folks. This is gonna be a long one.

Romanticism as a movement started in the late 18th century, and is described by Isaiah Berlin as the “the greatest single shift in the consciousness of the West”. The modern ideas of childhood, imagination,  and sentimentality were born here. It’s a rejection of society’s constraints in favor of impossible yearning for impossible goals. Romantics were restless and passionate, and embraced the magnitude of their feeling over the scientific rigors of the Age of Reason.

Sound familiar?

Romanticism gets its name from the old medieval ballads (themselves written in the Romantic languages) that became popular with the growing movement. The 19th century was a period of incredible change. Industrialization, urbanization, and the development of the middle class were all new. Revolution, both industrial and political, was changing the course of the world forever. The Romantics worshiped heroes of the past (in fact, the term hero worship was coined during this time) and sought a return to nature. William Wordsworth famously lobbied against the building of railways in his beloved Lake District, and much of the art of the time, whether it be painting or poetry, focused heavily on man’s relation with nature

In addition to rebelling against traditional political structures, the Romantics also broke away from the traditional religious teaching, many believing that man found enlightenment not through theology or the bible, but by study and attunement with nature. One of proto-Romantic writer Jean-Jaques Rousseau’s most influential works Emile, or On Education was banned in parts of Europe and even publicly burned due to its ideas on natural religion.

All of this leads to the Romantic pursuit of the sublime. While Enlightenment thinkers would often attempt to remove themselves emotionally from what they were experiencing in order to understand said experience through objective, immutable fact, the Romantics sought emotion, awe, and reverence that transcended rational thought. They celebrated and marveled at the wonders of creation, allowing themselves to be consumed by emotion and experience. These were not stoic people, and its here where One Piece truly begins to shine as a work of Romantic art

The world of One Piece, particularly once the story gets to the Grand Line, is chalk full of impossible wonder and whimsy. Each island visited along the journey is a feast for the eyes, and Oda’s art does each distinct and incredible location every justice. Luffy has no desire to see the boring or everyday, and he has no qualm in expressing his excitement everywhere he goes. Oda has made the conscious decision never to let the reader look into Luffy’s thoughts via thought bubbles, but the audience is still able to connect with him because they are always aware of what he he is feeling. Every smile takes up half his face, every sadness drawn as a sniveling wreck. Logical ideas are routinely rejected in favor of desired experiences, and Luffy himself rejects the opportunity to hear the answer to the series’s biggest questions because to him, the journey is more important.

It’s important that Luffy’s mindset isn’t all that common, even a world as wild and wacky as One Piece. As the Jaya arc proves, Roger’s execution initially inspired a generation of pirates to go out and follow their dreams, but in the twenty years since his death that ideaolgy has crumbled under the weight of a new wave of dreamless pragmaticism, the same way the Romantic movement gave way to the Realists who followed. 

Luffy’s Romantic spirit stands out, even amongst the Straw Hat Pirates. Many of the Straw Hat’s character arcs involve Luffy helping to remove the blocks that prevent them from living out their Romantic ideals. As the series progresses, the crew inches towards embodying that freedom of spirit that Luffy exemplifies. What that looks like for each crewmate is different (Romanticism is highly individualistic, after all) but they’re given the opportunity to live out that ideal because of their association with Luffy.

This theme of freedom of expression and pursuit of dreams follows the Straw Hats wherever they go on both the micro and macro level. The Romantic pursuit of self-determination bleeds over nearly every arc with Luffy at its epicenter, until it comes to a crescendo during the Wano arc, when the true nature of Luffy’s fruit comes to light for the first time.

Luffy is the beating heart of One Piece’s Romanticism. He specifically imbues many of the Romantic ideals of childhood, such as innocence, joy, and being unprejudiced by a corrupting society. He’s uncomplicated yet passionate, without a care in the world for what anyone else thinks about him, and because of that disregard for authority he comes off as equal parts wise and naive.

In Emile, Rousseau lays out his idea of childhood education, which doesn’t include a classroom so much as the child’s interaction with the world, emphasizing the senses and building on the child’s own observations and inferences. The Romantic child was instinctual and in tune with nature, and a character like Luffy growing up on the fringes of society while spending most of his time romping around in the woods would not be out of place (see Mary Robinson’s The Savage of Aveyron, based on the real story of a feral boy that had been found in France).

What makes Luffy different is that he never loses that simplicity of character even as he interacts with an increasingly complex world. Yes, he matures both as a person and a captain, bearing the weight of terrible loss and difficult decisions, but he does it still while maintaining that curious mix of selfish desire to do whatever he wants and selfless sacrifice towards the people he cares about. Luffy doesn’t want to be a hero, but remains uncorrupted by the malevolent social hierarchies that rule One Piece’s world.

But for all the ways One Piece is a Romantic story, the philosophy of the series departs in several key places. The Romantics of the late 18th and 19th centuries were reacting to the anxieties brought around by the Industrial Revolution and the subsequent urbanization that came along with it, while One Piece belongs squarely to the post-modern era of the 21st. While both glorify a long-gone past, what that past looks like is very different. One Piece fully embraces technology and progress, as best seen during the conflict between Noland and Calgura in the Skypia flashback. While industrialization is sometimes portrayed negatively (see Wano) it’s just as likely to be seen in a positive light (Water 7), and the mysterious civilization of the Void Century was more technologically advanced than the present day manga, not less.

What’s more important than modernization and technological advance is the ways people use said technology. The beautifully rendered locations along the Straw Hat’s journey are just as likely to be vast stretches of wilderness as bustling metropolises, and that search of wonder and the sublime is equally likely to be found in both.

More importantly, I think, is that the Romantics of old were solitary creatures, brooding and isolated from the people around them. There was a preoccupation of creating art devoid of outside influence. The sublime was a deeply personal experience that by its very nature could not be shared with others. Melancholy, loss, solitude, and death were preoccupations of the Romantic mind, the price of visionary genius being social isolation.

One of the most famous Romantic heroes of the 19th century was Thomas Chatterton, a young genius of a poet who, in the midst of poverty and depression killed himself at the age of 17. He was immortalized in paintings and poems, and his influence can be felt to this day by the persistence of the trope of the suffering artist that he, and countless others, helped codify.

One Piece is the story of a boy who rejects the confines of society in search of his own freedom, but he does not do so alone. Luffy is driven as much by the desire to be with his friends as he is by his desire to find the One Piece. The series agrees that risking death is an acceptable part of chasing ones dream, but rejects the notion that it should be sought out or celebrated. It’s better to live an undignified life in the hope of a better tomorrow than to give into an easy death.

And that’s the fascinating part about how philosophies evolve over time, because as much as One Piece borrows from the Romantic era of the 18 and 19th centuries, it isn’t a Romantic story, just as how no amount of research and copying of style could ever turn a historical novel written today into a product of the era its trying to emulate. Oda has taken an old idea and made it into something new, using that idea as the guide for the entire series. Like sun, guiding to the dawn of a new era.

A Romance dawn, if you will. 

#one piece #romanticism #creative-type analyzes #monkey d luffy #guess what I wrote instead of sleeping

[lunchmeater]

AUGUST HONEY: CHAPTER ONE : STRANGERS - PREVIEW

Ghost x Reader -- Firefighter/Civilian AU -- Word Count 1.8k

Description: A dead-end artist, bookstore owner, and front woman in a band, from the outside everything looks like it’s coming together for you. But within, your life feels like it’s repeating the same day over and over again. You’re sleeping with your bass guitarist, you live in the apartment above your bookstore, and your art all looks the same. You miss the danger of youth, the thrill of freedom. You miss change.

And right when that feeling hits, right when you’re grasping for straws, a couple of the new local firefighters decide to go out for drinks.

TWs for Entire Fic: Depictions of unhealthy relationships (not with Ghost), mentions and depictions of alcoholism, smut

TWs for Chapter: Very small reference to alcoholism

AN: I'm very new to Tumblr y'all please excuse the horrendous formatting

Seven in the afternoon. Time to close up. With a satisfying click of the shop's front door locking, you rubbed the back of your neck, turning your head slightly to the side to see the scenery outside.

You've owned this shop for so long that the view from the window was more familiar than the layout of the lines of your palm. Your attention traced the road first, noting the way the concrete was still wet from the early morning rain. The sidewalks were a shade darker for the same reason and covered in the muddy footprints of passersby. Windows from other shops and buildings stood tall, some of the buildings they belonged to were twice as tall as your own. Then your eyes traveled along the rolling mountains in the background behind the buildings and the still-lit houses lolling up and down its curves. This was a small city.

The sun was beginning its journey behind the distant mountains. It's beams were reaching hands across that of the thresh hold of your little bookstore, stroking the hardwood floors and illuminating them golden. Following the line of the sunlight, your eyes landed on your dog, a Rhodesian Ridge-Back named Sylvie. Despite being a big-game hunting breed, she was beyond lazy and sleeping soundly in the light of the sun.

God. You wished it was normal for humans to do that too.

It was warm in here, beginning to get quite cold out there. Your head turned back to the window and saw the clouds that were rolling in from the West. Likely more rain. Maybe there would be a nice thunderstorm tonight, or maybe even some snow.

The entire day you were waiting for this. Just being alone in the place. The place creaked with age, the floorboards despite having been replaced since the buying of the home whining as you stepped on them. You reached your record player sitting in the corner of the room on its own personal table, surrounded by shelves you built yourself. They held numerous vinyl records that you collected yourself over the course of the years, ever since you were thirteen.

The sleeves, despite their various colors, were painted with a gold glaze in the light of the evening sun. Your finger traced each individual spine, feeling the grooves in between the sleeves of the records, before you finally landed on one titled Pink Magic.

You grabbed it, slipping it out from in between Citrona and Subliming. The cover held a gradient that eased from pastel pink on the right to pastel blue on the left. In the center stood a man holding a disco ball covered in paint in front of his face. It was an album you bought on a whim and hadn't heard in a while, so you put it on. Easing the needle down onto the grooves of the record disc where you knew the specific song was nearly by muscle memory. You read the lines on the record like a language few understood.

The song started, fading into earshot before a guitar part layered over the tones. Then a drum beat and bass guitar came in afterwards, then finally the lyrics.

"Picture this, a swing and a miss."

You interlocked your fingers together and stretched upwards, slightly arching your back in the motion and leaning back before letting out a long sigh and turning to check all of the tables in the entrance area. The welcome mat was muddy and could use washing, the tables had coasters, drops of various drinks, and crumbs scattering their surfaces. A quick turn and a glance into the reading areas on the other side of the shop, connected by a large arch doorway, showed the large area was in only a small amount of disarray. Books, the order of which you had memorized, were out of place, some abandoned on the tables near the windows. The rug was wrinkled, and there was some mud tracked on the floors, but nothing major.

"Never exchanging a name."

When you turned around, you noticed your head was starting to hurt from the stress of the day. Saturdays were always crowded with not only the typical adult customers but also lovesick rowdy teenagers looking for a cup of coffee and loud conversation with one another in the large table by the window.

You opened your eyes after rubbing your temple with your fingers and jumped near six inches off of the ground when a figure was seen standing close to the window.

He laughed immediately, his hand in the pockets of his black slacks and a tux jacket slung over his shoulder. The hand removed itself from the place in your old friend's pocket to wave and you relaxed, slightly annoyed by his sudden appearance. A white dress shirt covered his torso loosely, unbuttoned far in the front showing the floral tattoo covering his collarbone. From a mixture of White and Hispanic heritage, as you knew, he had tan skin with dark, long hair that swung around in curls and waves. He had dark brown eyes with thick brows and an unshaven five o'clock shadow. Upon his face was a smile. His name was Bailey.

"Infatuated, I contemplated your lips."

You walked over to the front door and opened it, to which you discovered him standing in front of you. Your friend from high school, your ex boyfriend, and your bassist. Couldn't say you weren't expecting him, you just weren't thinking right. You wouldn't have locked the door behind him if you were.

"But my infatuation was strange."

He smiled a little wider and you frowned.

"Don't do that," you said bluntly. "Scared the shit out of me."

Bailey laughed. "Sorry."

"Black, purple and cream."

You invited him in silently by stepping aside and opening the door; he stepped inside willingly. Curt, and with the intention of both teasing and genuine thanks, he nodded his head silently. His black boots, as you saw, made muffled footsteps as his well-used footwear made contact with the welcome mat. Bailey wiped his feet, shifting the mat with the movement, and didn't need to reach far to hang his coat on the rack.

Your eyes followed the way his shoulder blades pressed against the cloth of his white dress shirt and you averted your eyes, feeling your chest swell gently knowing what was likely coming tonight.

Suddenly noticing a rising ache of stiffness in your shoulders from standing and trying to play off the staring in case Bailey noticed, you shifted, brushing aside the drifting cloth of your over-sized lavender dress shirt and placing your hands in your cream khaki pockets.

"These are the colors of your nightmares, and colors of my dreams."

"Fizzy Blood?" Bailey asked in reference to the song playing on the record player. He huffed a laugh. "I forgot about them."

"Me too," you responded, walking briskly past him to get to the counter and fetch the hand towel you used to wipe down tables. You noticed the table to your left, a table for two occupied earlier by a particularly noisy tween couple that met briskly before departing. Despite them being rather annoying upon presence, the thought of them was sweet. Reminding you of you and Bailey in high school sneaking out to see movies and get garbage gas station food.

In fact, this song played once or twice during those adventures, pushing you into a sudden state of nostalgia.

The song was moving into the chorus as Bailey leaned against the corner of the counter and watched you wipe down the table. His steady hands, painted with tattoos of vines dancing around his fingers that moved with him, was planted sternly on the side of the counter. You knew how rough his fingertips were from pressing down thick strings and how easily they drew ink freehand sketches of various animals, mostly foxes.

"So what's the set for tonight?" he asked. His voice, tainted raw and gravely with cigarette smoke, always reminded you of his hard history. He moved out of his mom's house recently, improving his mental state, but he still had yet to overcome his nasty habit of smoking and drinking.

You shrugged in response. "Haven't thought of anything yet. Busy day."

"Need suggestions?"

"Yeah."

"Well with it being Friday night and all, the bar's going to be packed," Bailey responded, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting the bulk of his weight from his hands to his waist which pressed into the corner of the counter as became more relaxed. He was always relaxed, smooth, and always wickedly smart. "I suggest Reignwolf."

Not a bad idea. Not too heavy, not too slow.

"Alright," you responded, finishing up with the table and briefly looking over all of the others. They were clean enough. You'd get whatever you missed eventually. "Your bass is still in my room. Get my guitar while you're at it; I'll get the amps."

Bailey smiled before removing himself from the counter and crossing the threshold of the counter, his strides so smooth and even his head barely bobbed from the distribution of weight as he walked. The footsteps created from the click of his shoes against the ground faded as he went further up the stairs.

You sighed as you watched him walk away and the shop faded back into quiet. You heard the sound of Bailey opening your bedroom door before the silence returned again like a wave that had faded off into sea and slammed back onto the sand. The sound of your dog Sylvie's breathing returning into the ambiance; she wasn't even affected by the entrance of Bailey.

Your eyes landed on the honey brown dog laying on the floor and you dropped briefly to stroke her flank and scratch behind her ears. She was snoring loudly, her eyes doing that gross scent-hound thing where the lids flipped and she slept with, essentially, her eyes open.

Not the weirdest dog you've ever owned, but certainly up there.

You moved back to your feet and crossed your arms, thinking. End of the day at the shop, then packing up instrument stuff, then going to the bar and performing, then back home again. Wake up and repeat. Day after day, week after week.

Until what? What was waiting for you? What was going to happen?

You leaned against the counter and stared out the window with your arms crossed, when your eyes landed on a figure on the other side of the street that stared back.

Tall, extremely tall. Easily six foot or more. Broad shoulders and a neck gaiter with a skull on it that covered his face from the nose down. Blond hair peaked out from underneath the hood of the black hoodie he had on with the fire department emblem on the breast. Jeans covered his long legs and a leash hung from his arm, connecting to a German Shepherd that seemed really intent on continuing his walk.

Your shoulders dropped when your eyes met, but it only lasted a second before he turned his head and continued walking, but you kept staring as he walked away. How long had he been standing there?

You cocked a brow, confused, before discarding the thought and turning around to see what was taking Bailey so long.

Inspired by the Firefighter!Ghost AU by @thelaisydazy

#simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod fic #firefighter au cod #cod au #x reader #fem reader #realistic fiction #fanfic

[rainbowsky]

Sunshine By My Side - a few answers

I've gotten quite a few questions about Sunshine By My Side. People want to know what it's about, what I think of it, whether I recommend it, etc. so here's some info related to the questions I've been getting. I apologize for not answering your asks individually.

About the Series

Sunshine By My Side is currently available on iQIYI with English subtitles. The first several episodes are available for free at 720p, while VIP subscribers are able to access more episodes earlier, at 1080p.

It hasn't yet appeared on WeTV international.

While there is a romantic storyline, this series is considered a 'life drama', not an idol romance like Oath of Love. It covers major life and workplace issues in a serious way and is intended to appeal to a much broader audience from a wider age range.

Contrary to popular belief, it isn't based on an original screenplay. It is an adaptation of a 2017 Taiwanese drama called My Dear Boy (this is confirmed in the credits of Sunshine By My Side).

Here is a synopsis of Sunshine By My Side (from MyDramaList):

Of course, the two stories will not be identical. There will have been some changes made to adapt it to the approach this new series wants to take.

Jian Bing (Bai Baihe), a well-known advertising director, and Sheng Yang (Xiao Zhan), a newcomer in the industry, randomly crossed paths inside a restaurant one day. One has just ended a marriage, while the other was waiting for a love to finally fall apart. These two strangers eventually developed a bond and began embarking on a journey of sublime growth and budding romance. With the company of Sheng Yang, Jian Bing was able to gain her confidence back both in life and in love whereas Sheng Yang grew up from a young and carefree youth to one with a keen edge under the guidance and encouragement of Jian Bing. The two healed each other, grew up together, and overtime learned to love one another.

However, challenges in life are inevitable. Faced with their differences both in their identities and experiences, objections towards their relationship within their families, and rumors in the workplace escalating, Jian Bing and Sheng Yang finally decided to let their future play out through the course of time. Three years passed, allowing them to grow and change for the better. A lot of their firsts were spent with each other, and this trust they held and the experiences they shared back then went around and finally found them, making them gravitate towards each other again.

Here's a trailer:

My Thoughts

As for whether I recommend it or not, I haven't actually seen any of it yet so I can't give you an informed recommendation. However, I have been really looking forward to this series because the story looks good, the female lead is a well known and well respected actor with real talent, and the script writers and director are also well respected.

I have a feeling this is going to be a good series. The feedback I've heard so far from people who are watching it has been solidly positive. So yes, I would recommend it based on all of that.

And ultimately I think it's worthwhile to watch as many projects of theirs as we can - even the bad ones *coughoathoflovecough* - because even when a story totally sucks and is poorly told, we still get to see how they approach certain roles, we learn more about their experiences and growth as actors, and we can talk about their projects from a well-informed perspective.

Nothing annoys me more than when fans shit-talk shows they haven't even seen. If you haven't seen it, you haven't yet earned that privilege, my friend. 😅

Anyway, I hope you all get a chance to see it, and that you enjoy it. I will be watching it eventually, when I have time. I will also be writing a review of it once I'm finished.

I hope this answers most of your questions. If I missed anything, please feel free to send in another ask.

#xiao zhan #sunshine by my side #ask

[swearyshera]

Advance apology for the long ask in a likely sea of 'em. A lot of people talk about wishing they could experience something they love again for the first time, this series was genuinely as close to that as I've ever felt. Just given the span of time my attention flucuated on and off but once the latter half of s4/s5 began my attention was absolutely nailed to your feed. Its up with Dragon Ball Z Abridged as parody series that become so dramatically effective they become a valid or definitive way to experience the series. Goddamned sensational.

Your portrayals of the characters soar. They provide a hilarious, cruder take on each that still cuts right to the soul of who these people are and lays it bare, which I think is the mission of any good-natured parody. Adora, Catra, Glimmer, Scorpia, Bow, Prime etc. There is not one that does not shine. It tackled a ton of issues and misgivings I had about canon, and even elevated or clarified many scenes and arcs through addressing them a more direct fashion. You took full advantage of not having to dress up and dance around the dark subjects canon was sort of doomed to handle inadequately given its age bracket and thematic priorities. Many scenes were jawdropping. Ive raved about it before, but your scene with Glimmer actually talking about her mom with Catra still leaves me gobsmacked every time I reread it. Your big moments towards the finale btwn Adora and Catra are obviously sublime and tie their wonderful arc off fantastically, but in my heart of hearts that cell talk will be the crown jewel of this project. Loved seeing the LGBT message take center stage in way canon had to hold back. To paraphrase Tolkien, I'm can't count myself among those gifted people, and youve def got a target audience in mind, but if youve ever worried if your stories resonate on a quote unquote "more universal" level, I promise you can put those worries to bed. Since becoming an adult ive intentionally sought out more and more queer-inclusive/created stories and I havent regretted it a bit, and the rising tide of fascist sexist/homo/transphobic bile in politics gets more and more frightening. But I've also seen how strong and resilient LGBT people are in the face of it, empowering themselves in no small part thru stories like yours. Please don't ever give up on your art. The world needs artists like you. Sorry if I come off pretentious or condescending, I feel like that when I try to get everything I think out at once. I'll be among the first to come running if you ever start another project like this or make something on an even grander scale. Thank you a thousand times for this. Also writing a wholeass sitcom pilot based on an offhand quasi-joke I made is the most weirdly touching thing I think anyones ever done "for me" (at least nominally cuz of me), especially a stranger. So thank you for that too.

Aw, you'll make me cry, you know! I think you've understood everything I wanted to do with this strip (or at least, when I started thinking beyond just 'characters saying fuck'), and... yeah, it's been an incredible journey, both for the blog and for me personally.

I've always tried to keep the parody good-natured. You can often tell, particularly in parody, when the creator dislikes one particular character (I mean, Horde Prime was probably the exception here), but I love all of them, so it really comes from a place of love. It's quite odd because I never set out to "fix" the show, and I wouldn't want to, but some things I've done seem to have had such an impact that a lot of people think I have done just that.

The Glimmer/Catra conversation is absolutely one of my favourite things I've written from this. It's such a pivotal moment in both their stories and character development, and I am truly humbled that multiple people have called it 'better than canon'. Like... I'm just some person trying to be funny and occasionally serious, and people are saying something I wrote is better than what a team of experienced professional writers did? Give over, no... But it's still a moment I can be proud of.

I won't be stopping writing things. This whole blog has given me a new lease of life and something to aim towards. I've got an excellent pilot script pretty much finished, and I do want to bring Hellspawn up to that standard too (thank you for suggesting someone make a Sweary Frosta sitcom - I'm someone!). That may well involve a complete re-write, but I'll be sure to share it.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your kind words along the way. It really keeps me going :)

[antidotesprout]

Is it possible to know what fabric material you used for your Submas plushies? Like for the hair and jackets?

Of course!! For the face, hair and body I used low-pile minky (1mm pile is my preference) There's a lot of places you can find it but I mostly sourced mine from an Etsy shop, here!

As for the clothes I used a material called deer suede from a website called doll makers journey. Originally I was going to use it for the skin as well, but I liked the way the embroidery looked on the minky better! They offer a -very- limited range of (mostly lighter) dyed skin tones (🙄) but they also sell it undyed, as white, from there I just sublimated the designs onto the fabric. And yes the site doesn't have to do with anime plushes at all but I did a lot of plush/cloth doll material research back in the day and deer suede did exactly what I needed for the scale I'm working at.

Just a bit of advice: this is not the only way to make plushes, you should always experiment, research and find what fabric works best for you!

#sprouts submas plush making adventures

[wellofdean]

Ok, with regard to the Winchesters, here's what I think: Dean is dead. He's on a journey in his own heaven, which is to say in the kingdom of his own self.

All these recurring scenes of being trapped in a locked room, or an unreal place, where the only way out is letting go of anger, dealing with trauma, telling the truth, trusting those who love you...very on the nose, like he is endlessly replaying and glitching on his last moments with Cas, and on the fact that he wasn't ready.

Dean's entire existence up until then was self-abnegation, self-recrimination, self-denial. In that very scene he tells Cas that all he knows how to do is kill, but Cas contradicts him, and shows Dean another face in the mirror of his love, but Dean was surprised, and not yet ready to forgive, acknowledge and love himself. I keep thinking of that moment in 15x19 when Chuck calls him "the ultimate killer" and Dean says "that's not who I am", and of this quote from Carl Jung from his book Memories, Dreams, Reflections:

"The acceptance of oneself is the essence of the whole moral problem...what if I should discover that the least among them all, the poorest of all the beggars, the most impudent of all the offenders, the very enemy himself -- that these are within me, and that I myself stand in need of the alms of my own kindness -- that I myself am the enemy who must be loved -- what then?"

I also keep thinking about the word Akrida, and it's phonological closeness to 'accretion'. For me, so much of what is truly sublime in Supernatural is more than anything about accretion: the accretion of years that transformed the Dean in episode 1 into the Dean of 15x18, and made Jensen into an actor who could embody him, then about accretion of moments that made Cas's love for him inevitable, and the accretion of our investment in Dean as a character over 15 years of story, and of how much he and the show changed over time. There was also an accretion of pain, trauma, guilt and doubt for him: accretion of both light and dark sides of his personality.

And, I keep thinking about accretion discs circling a singularity in space, something so dense and dark that nothing can escape it, not even light, once it crosses the event horizon, and of Dean lost in his own subconscious, desperately trying to transform, commute and integrate these things he can't stop repeating to himself.

But, Akrida also means 'pleasure garden' in Sanskrit, and as we know from Supernatural canon, the centre of heaven is a garden. Maybe the event horizon isn't to be feared? We canonically know that Cas remade heaven for Dean. Maybe the singularity is Dean's integration?

Maybe it's where pleasure awaits him.

OMG, I cannot wait.

#spnwin #the winchesters #dean winchester #castiel #jensen ackles #i love your fanfic! #carry on sir! #deanception #into the deanverse

[utterlyhooked]

Masterfully done!

like a Greek Tragedy... an Operatic Death

This episode!!!.. even the drumming as Shaoshang tries to leave the manor, but most especially... from the moment they arrived to the banquet... the set, the lighting, the colours, the music score, the aural mood that greatly heightens the viewers emotions, the body movements... GLORIOUSLY SUBLIME!!!

Even the menacing laugh as he slowly walks towards Ling Yi... the syllable by syllable - clearly enunciated name, the crunch as the sword penetrates the flesh and the ‘schwing’ of the sword as it slices Ling Yi’s neck, the bodily attitude, the blurring and focusing again, the slow motion as he lets go of the Marquis’s head...  Devastatingly beautiful!

So unhinged, it’s perfect!

and at the end, a brief moment of disbelief and then, a cathartic release of emotion. It’s done! The slightest flash of joy immediately extinguished with sadness and grief. Unbridled tears come. The blood, tears, snot, saliva... it’s not pretty, but somehow very necessary!* It’s like being brought to a journey of complex emotions while the heart is being ripped out and at the same time awestruck as you watch.

*Apparently this was Wu Lei’s sugestion, don’t know if it’s true. Too lazy to look it up.

At certain angles, his face looks gaunt, immaciated, skeletal even. Here he looks deranged... immaculately put together, not a hair out of place, controlled... but he looks deranged nevertheless.

I don’t know if this is by design... after all the carnage, he is still put together, just a few strands of hair out of place, a few rips on the clothes. I like the disparity of somehow still immaculate but with blood spatter everywhere.

And can I just say, A’Fei and A’Qi’s sacrifice are no less than anybody elses! Such devotion! Such loyalty! I love them! I was bawlin’ when he told them, “Please stay alive.”  I’ve wondered if they knew for years who he really was, but that might have been too risky. I’m inclined to think that they didn’t until around Shaoshang knew or just slightly before/after. Judging from the Third Prince’s reaction when Shaoshang revealed to the court that he was Huo Chongs son, I don’t think he knew either.

A number times** I have watched this and still as impactful as the first time  when it was released back in mid(ish) August. Episode 48 was... just... firecrackers blowing up in my head!!!!... The freakin dramagods delivered!!! I was awestruck and still am after rewatching.

**I watch episodes on different websites. It gives me the option of different subtittles because some of the dialogues are interpreted so differently, some actually changes the narrative! By and by, I think subs on Viki gives more information especially on traditions, social ranks, what those ranks mean, refers to what litterature, colloquialisms, etc., etc. Little details that we would otherwise miss when only refering to the subs on other websites.

#月升沧海 #星汉灿烂 #Love Like The Galaxy #LLTG #Wu Lei #Leo Wu #General Ling #General Huo #Huo Wushang #Ling Buyi #Zisheng #Ep 48 #A'Fei #A'Qi #cdrama #cdramaedit #Firecrackers blowing up in my head! #Awestruck! #like a Greek Tragedy #an Operatic Death #yes! I love the opera!

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"We Are Eternal"

Rating: General Audiences Type: One-shot Word count: 1k+

Summary:

Paz Vizsla leaves a message to his son Ragnar via holo-recording before he joins the reconnaissance team to scout Mandalore. If that were to be his last stand, no words will be left unsaid.

Epistolary in Paz's POV (aka it is in letter form).

Spoilers for s03ep07 or Chapter 23 - “The Spies” 

Read on AO3 or here:

"We Are Eternal"

*****

My son, Ragnar—

When this message reaches you, little one, know that I am already dead. Don’t despair. 

But you will feel the despair anyway. You will feel doubt, you will feel great sadness and fear, and worst of all, you will feel unloved. Abandoned. You are allowed to feel all that, my little one. Allow yourself to feel the rage, the grief, the immense sadness—but never linger in those intense emotions. When the time is right, you will know that you need let go.

I do not expect you to understand right away, and neither does the Tribe—all those who have come to respect me as a warrior, and love you as my son and fellow young soldier. One day, you will understand what true sacrifice is. One day, you will understand why the greatest, most sublime way of showing my love to you is leaving you, as confusing as it sounds. But while I will no longer be with you where I can hold you, and you can hold me, tangible and real in body—so I will remain with you in spirit. As I make my journey to the Oversoul to join all the noble and brave Mandalorians who have gone before us, a huge part of me will remain in your heart’s memory. Even as you hear me now, in this piece of memory, one day you may even forget my voice. You may even forget my stance or the exact words of wisdom I tell you now; you may even come to resent me for a long time. 

I forgive you as I will never cease loving you from the length and breadth of the Oversoul.

I have chosen you as my son because you have what it takes to be a true warrior. You are a worthy Vizsla, Ragnar, as you are in your entirety a worthy Mandalorian. I know you are capable of resilience, of the grit that comes with the most challenging parts of life, of overcoming all tribulations which forge us into true children of Mandalore. You are still but a tender blade ready to be sharpened and doused in fire and water as the hammer falls on you again and again. That will always be the core of a Mandalorian’s life. 

I have chosen you not just for your great respect and awe of the Creed which you have sworn into, but because whether or not the time will come when you shall lift helm from your face so your bare eyes would see the sun again, you will always remain to serve the greatest honor and the greatest good. 

When you find yourself astray, follow your instincts. There could have been many more years where I could teach you to hone your skills, to see you grow up into a man who would keep his word, a man who sees through his mind’s eye rather than what is presented before him—a man of discernment, strength, and vision. Yet I am confident that I have left you with enough to take the next steps on your own, and most especially with the help and guidance of the Tribe. 

Ragnar, you are never alone. You may walk the steps in solitude if you seek it, but remember that the Tribe will always have your back, as one day you will be there for the Tribe, and pay the kindness forward. Only you can entrust yourself with that great purpose.

Remember what I have taught you about our canons of honor? Strength is life, for the strong have the right to rule. Honor is life, for with no honor one may as well be dead. Loyalty is life, for without one's clan one has no purpose. Death is life, one should die as they have lived.

My son, we were all born to die, but not only is that the most natural thing about life—is that if we are blessed with the choice on how we leave our earthly existence, we will choose our actions wisely, actions that would resonate through the centuries even after we have long gone. If we can, we will always choose a warrior’s death, but not to vainly tempt fate. We will make every breath in our bodies count as we give everything we have in service of the whole instead of self. When we choose how to die, it will be an act of selflessness. Do everything in your power to hold the line when the line is all that remains.

I have left you not because I do not love you. I am dead not because I couldn’t care less about you. You are the most precious thing that I would ever fight for, and whom I would readily die for. Know that my last thoughts will be of you, and of the greatness you and the Mandalorians have yet to achieve when we take our place among the open galaxy once again. 

Be fearless, Ragnar, although fear will overtake you more times than you will realize. Find strength in the Creed. They are words forever forged in your heart. Let every step you tread be inspired by the Way of the Mand’alor. The Tribe has taught you. I have taught you. I have great faith in you.

Farewell for now, my little one. As with all those who have departed before us, know that I am not gone; I am merely marching far away. Let it be many long years until you are by my side once more, marching along with me, and we will look each other in the eye in spirit as we have done so in life. We will say to each other that we have served our greatest purpose, and death took us because that greatest purpose has been fulfilled. That is how we become eternal.

I love you always, my young warrior. I have joined our ancestors as you will one day join them. Unfurl the banner of Clan Vizsla. Bear all joy and pain with honor, as we will all someday die with honor. That is my prayer for you and for all our brothers and sisters.

This is the Way.

Your father, Paz.

*****

Author's Notes:

I can't believe our beloved big blue warrior has passed. :'( Although many wish or believe that he could have survived, I say, let Paz have his warrior's death. As painful as it is, Paz deserved to go like a real hero (even if 'hero' doesn't exist in Mandalorian vocabulary as the lore says). Now the torch of Clan Vizsla is now in Ragnar's hands. ;_; Please pray for Ragnar. Lol ugly sobbing~

P.S. and edit: This epistolary fic is inspired by “death letters” written by soldiers who are regularly deployed on dangerous missions, so they write letters to their families just in case, in a pov as though they had already gone. Of course if they do survive, they either disregard or dispose of the letter or keep it until the next mission. Paz seems pretty hardcore from the beginning and he was most probably ready for anything especially a warrior’s death. 💔💙

*****

Read more stories on Clan Vizsla's own clan of two: Paz and Ragnar 💙:

"A Future Yet Unknown" (also on AO3)

"Only One Creed" (also on AO3)

"From The Ashes" (also on AO3)

"All The Little Foundlings" (also on AO3)

#the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian season 3 #mando season 3 spoilers #star wars fanfics #star wars fanfiction #mando fanfic #the mandalorian #father and son relationship #clan vizsla #paz vizsla #ragnar vizsla #epistolary #grief and loss #foundlings are the future #my fics #my writing #more star wars orphans

[kitchen-light]

Beauty is as old as dirt. Beauty is dark, complex, transformation–and not for the faint at heart. Beauty is the Sublime, which means you cannot stand in its presence, but must fall to your knees. It is often unattractive, what it brings in its hands for you and only you. And the question is always Do you have the strength to stand here and take it. That experience is often unpleasant, or it is a journey, a quest. But if it is true, that Beauty is a particular face of the Goddess, why would you ever run? Regardless of what Beauty asks of one, one must stay to the end.

Robin Coste Lewis, from “Robin Coste Lewis: “Black Joy is My Primary Aesthetic””, published in Lit Hub, November 14, 2016

#robin coste lewis #quotes #interviews #words #found* #on the spiritual

[astrxlfinale]

I got a whole cast of Goddesses that he can stare at if he wants to, I can guarantee one or two of them wouldn't mind ;)

Goddesses.

Divine figures that with a roll of a hand, a twist of their fingers, could proceed to enact legends and create myths entirely by their namesake.

So what does that same about the forms they take? Peaceful, mighty, powerful, sublime in fashions that would nearly bring entire civilizations under a brand of hypnotism from their charm. Caelus knew that such a golden offer was not only a path of paradise, but the exact brand that would have him reconstructing every minute detail his journey taught him about some concepts.

There was a good reason why this warrior's face found itself glowing with a stir of crimson color. Why impulse was restrained for a fleeting moment, a flex of his throat revealing that his imagination was being the devil in this moment of paradise. Was the essence of curiosity such a bad thing?

"Definitely-- Keeping that in mind." How much in his mind is the question here.

@divinityunleashed

#divinityunleashed #| Shuttle Mail #This ask is a prime example of how to #Turn his head into a oven

[denimbex1986]

'How is the world different for queer people? Ask any gay man about their relationship with their parents and there will no easy way out. The wobbly, transient space for queer relationships out in the open, to be accepted by our dear ones, is still inaccessible to many. There's coming out and there's no going back from there. A gay man might just be different because he wasn't heard long enough, and so he has forgot what it feels like to be heard, or even seen for what they are. These are some questions that breath life into the new drama All Of Us Strangers.

A tricky tightrope of balance threatens to disrupt the beauty of Andrew Haigh's fifth feature: a film that refuses to be slotted into the frenzy of a genre. It is a ghost story embedded in a love story. In the hands of a lesser director, the thrill of the former would have overshadowed the vitality of the latter, but the British writer-director is somehow able to bring these two elements together with feather-weight skill and intensity. The more you think about it, the more All Of Us Strangers expands. You know immediately that this is a story that comes from someplace deep and personal.

A masterful adaptation

Haigh loosely adapts the 1987 novel Strangers by Taichi Yamada, which was earlier made into a Japanese film called The Discarnates. Here, the focus rests on Adam (Andrew Scott), a lonely gay man in his forties, who never got to come out to his parents. They had died in a car crash when he was just 11. Yet, one fine evening, Adam finds himself tracing back to the familiar corners of the suburbs, where he finds them again (played by Claire Foy and Jamie Bell). Both mum and dad are living in the small house as it is. Time has stopped for them, they still reside somewhere in the 1980s.

The premise

Back in his solitary London building, a surprising connection blossoms up with the only person living there- the much younger and handsome Harry (Paul Mescal). At first, Adam doesn't want any sort of connection with him, but Harry charms his way into his apartment, and the two men share the softest of kisses, guiding each other along the way. Adam finds out that Harry is lonely too, having cut off connection with his family and living mostly by himself.

Adam is drawn repeatedly back to his parents house, even as his relationship with Harry takes shape along the way. In this journey that extends between the past and the present, Andrew Scott's presence acts as an anchor, grounding the circles around dreams and memories, reality and fantasy. Adam's trauma cuts deep, almost debilitating him to care less about himself. Haigh's deeply compassionate and tender direction in the scenes with Harry and his parents provide him space to finally come out to them and talk about his feelings. Emilie Levienaise-Farrouch's lovely score undercuts many of these expressions of love and longing.

A superb cast

It all works largely because of the quartet of actors. Haigh assembles a triumphant cast to bring this wrenching story alive. Jamie Bell and Claire Foy are terrific together: a late scene by the Christmas tree is unforgettable in the way Foy masks complicated feelings through the humming of 'Always on my Mind'. As Harry, Paul Mescal is in scene-stealing form, rising to the occasion whenever Jamie Ramsay's tender camerawork inches towards his face. Yet so much of All Of Us Strangers works because of Andrew Scott- and the actor outdoes himself in a fiercely intelligent and receptive performance. How is he not locked in for a Best Actor nomination at the Oscars is beyond me.

The impossible begins to feel miraculously unique and necessary in the way All of Us Strangers weaves reality with the ghost story. Yes, there's predicament, but there's great skill with which Haigh asks the tough questions, eager to bridge the generational gap between parents and children. To love; to give in to all its questions and joys and agonies is perhaps the most vital sort of life force. Haigh's brave and beautiful ghost story rests on that question, and says that every inch of that emotion is worth the effort and pain.'

#Andrew Haigh #Andrew Scott #Paul Mescal #Claire Foy #Jamie Bell #Strangers #Taichi Yamada #All of Us Strangers #Oscars #Jamie Ramsay #Emilie Levienaise-Farrouch #Always on My Mind #Pet Shop Boys

[shopislami]

Embarking on a Spiritual Voyage: The Magnificence of the Muslim Prayer Rug

In the world of Islamic spirituality, few objects hold as much reverence and significance as the Prayer Rug Muslim. This simple yet profound piece of fabric serves as a tangible link between the believer and the Divine, embodying centuries of tradition, symbolism, and spiritual devotion. Delving into the intricate beauty and spiritual depth of the prayer rug unveils a world of profound meaning and timeless wisdom.

A Tapestry of Tradition:

The history of the prayer rug is steeped in tradition, dating back to the early days of Islam. Originally woven by skilled artisans using natural fibers and dyes, prayer rugs were crafted with meticulous attention to detail, often featuring intricate geometric patterns and motifs. Over time, the art of rug weaving became deeply intertwined with Islamic culture, with each region producing its unique styles and designs.

Symbolism and Spiritual Significance:

At its core, the prayer rug serves as a sacred space for Muslims to engage in Salah, the ritual act of prayer. When laid out on the ground, the rug becomes a symbol of the mihrab, the niche in the mosque that indicates the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca. Facing the Qiblah, believers stand upon the rug, their hearts and minds focused on the divine presence as they perform their prayers.

Journey of the Soul:

Beyond its functional role in prayer, the prayer rug symbolizes the spiritual journey of the believer. As one stands upon the rug, they are transported from the mundane to the sublime, from the material world to the realm of the spirit. With each prostration and bow, they draw closer to the divine presence, transcending the limitations of the physical realm and entering into a state of pure spiritual communion.

Cultural Heritage and Artistry:

Throughout history, prayer rugs have served as expressions of cultural heritage and artistic expression. From the vibrant colors and intricate patterns of Persian rugs to the geometric symmetry of Turkish carpets, each rug reflects the unique aesthetic sensibilities of its creators. Passed down through generations, these rugs become cherished heirlooms, carrying with them the stories and traditions of their makers.

A Source of Comfort and Reflection:

In times of joy and sorrow, the prayer rug serves as a source of comfort and solace for Muslims around the world. Whether in the quiet solitude of the home or the bustling atmosphere of the mosque, believers find refuge upon the soft embrace of the prayer rug. Here, amidst the gentle sway of fibers and the intricate patterns, they find a moment of peace and reflection in the midst of life's challenges.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, the prayer rug stands as a testament to the beauty and depth of Islamic spirituality. Woven into its fabric are centuries of tradition, symbolism, and devotion, inviting believers to embark on a journey of prayer and contemplation. As one stands upon the prayer rug, they are reminded of their connection to the divine and the timeless wisdom of their faith. Truly, the prayer rug is not merely an object of adornment but a sacred vessel that carries the soul on its journey toward spiritual enlightenment and transcendence.

#Prayer Rug Muslim #Prayer mat gift set #Prayer rug

[modmatuk]

Dress up your home or office space and share the love with these magnificent ancient carved stone effect inspired circular coaster with a modern twist.

The Aztec stone face sculpture possesses a captivating strength that emanates from its intricately carved features and timeless appeal. Crafted with meticulous detail, the sculpture showcases the Aztec civilization's remarkable craftsmanship and artistic prowess. Its sturdy stone composition conveys a sense of resilience and durability, symbolizing the indomitable spirit of the Aztec people. When displayed, this magnificent artwork bestows a powerful presence upon its surroundings, capturing the attention and admiration of all who behold it. Its historical significance and cultural significance serve as a reminder of the rich heritage and traditions of the Aztec civilization, connecting the user to a bygone era of ancient wisdom and mystique. The sculpture's profound beauty and imposing aura act as a source of inspiration, imbuing the user with a sense of strength and determination, making it a perfect complement to one's surroundings and personal journey.

So, whether you're sipping on your morning coffee or enjoying an evening herbal tea, these coasters are the perfect addition to any home. Really showcase your personality and create flair to your room with our custom coasters.

Select the numbers of coasters you want I sell up to ten per set for a greatly reduced cost per coaster.

All of my coasters are either designed by me or commissioned from other designers. My coasters are then printed, heat pressed and packed by myself from my home studio.

And whilst your here, have a look through the rest of my catalogue which also includes matching similar designs. Or alternatively, if you have a design you want for a coaster, or maybe a logo then please feel free to drop me a message and together we can create your custom design!

Coaster Info:

90mm diameter

4mm thick

Single sided sublimated print

Cork backed to protect your surface

Glossy, wipe clean finish

#coasterset #tableware #coaster enthusiast

[unknowncruiser]

King Carlos Butt Plug

"Hey, Ethan! I brought something special for us to try today," Carlos said, holding up the sleek and luxurious butt plug.

Ethan's eyes widened with anticipation. "Oh, I've heard great things about this one! I'm excited to see what it can do."

Carlos followed Ethan into the living room, where they settled on the couch. He placed the butt plug on the coffee table, giving it a little spin to showcase its elegant design.

"This is the Imperial Silicone Butt Plug, designed for unparalleled comfort and pleasure," Carlos explained, his voice oozing with excitement. "Its tapered shape and smooth, body-safe silicone make it perfect for effortless insertion and extended wear."

Ethan leaned in closer, his curiosity piqued. "Tell me more about its features, Carlos. What sets it apart from other butt plugs?"

Carlos picked up the plug, running his fingers along the velvety-smooth surface. "Well, this beauty boasts a powerful yet whisper-quiet motor, offering ten different vibration patterns. You can explore a range of sensations, from gentle pulsations to intense vibrations."

Ethan's eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Sounds amazing! How about we put it to the test?"

Carlos nodded, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Absolutely, Ethan. Let's embark on a journey of sublime pleasure together."

As they delved into the experience, Carlos guided Ethan through the process of preparing and inserting the butt plug. Their conversation intertwined with whispers of pleasure and encouragement, creating an atmosphere of trust and exploration.

In that moment, the Imperial Silicone Butt Plug showcased its prowess, delivering waves of exquisite sensations that left both Ethan craving for more. It was an intimate encounter that brought them closer, exploring new depths of pleasure in their shared journey.

"Carlos, this plug is incredible. I can't imagine parting ways with it. Do you think... maybe you could leave it here?" Ethan's voice was filled with a mix of longing and excitement.

Carlos chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, Ethan, I must say, you seem to have developed quite the attachment to this exquisite piece of pleasure. But it's from my personal collection, you know?"

Ethan's pleading expression intensified. "I understand, Carlos, but I've never experienced anything like this before. It's like it was made for me. Please, just let me enjoy it a little longer."

Carlos paused for a moment, contemplating Ethan's passionate plea. He couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction in seeing how much his product had captivated Ethan. With a playful smirk, he finally relented.

"All right, Ethan," Carlos said, a twinkle in his eye. "Consider it on an extended loan. But remember, this plug is part of the King Carlos collection, so I expect you to take good care of it."

Ethan's face lit up with joy, grateful for Carlos's understanding. "Thank you so much, Carlos! I promise to treat it like a treasure and make the most of every pleasure-filled moment.".

"Ethan, my friend, I have a proposition for you," Carlos said, his voice filled with excitement. "This plug... it's more than just a pleasure device. I believe it has the potential to take our gooning sessions to an entirely new level. Imagine the sensations, the intensity, the sheer bliss of combining the plug with our dumbzone journey."

"You think this plug can enhance the dumbzone experience?" Ethan asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Carlos nodded vigorously. "Absolutely! Just imagine the feeling of being completely filled, every nerve ending electrified as we surrender to the goon. The plug will keep us anchored in pleasure, intensifying the sensations and amplifying the power of the dumbzone. It's like a catalyst for pure ecstasy. Trust me my bro.."

Ethan couldn't help but be captivated by Carlos's enthusiasm. "How about we take have a little goon sesh right now, bro?"

The dimly lit room enveloped Ethan and Carlos as they settled into their gooning session. The air was thick with anticipation, and a sense of transformation lingered in the atmosphere. Carlos suddenly took the lead, his voice carrying a hypnotic cadence.

"Relax, Ethan. Let the dumbzone embrace you," Carlos began, his tone commanding yet soothing. "Feel the weight of your thoughts drift away, as your mind opens itself to the depths of surrender."

Ethan closed his eyes, allowing Carlos's words to wash over him. But something was different this time. Ethan's thoughts began to unravel, his sense of self blurring at the edges.

"Carlos... I... I don't understand," Ethan stuttered, his voice tinged with confusion. "Why... am I feeling this way? Why do I... feel like dumbzone?"

Carlos's expression remained calm, a glimmer of intrigue dancing in his eyes. "Good boy, Ethan. Let go of the need for understanding. Embrace the dumbzone. In the depths of the dumbzone, boundaries fade, and identities merge."

As the session progressed, Ethan's confusion gave way to a strange sense of liberation. He felt Carlos's energy surging within him, a newfound boldness and confidence permeating his being. The roles were shifting, their personalities intertwining as if caught in an ethereal dance.

"Gooooon....dumbzone....bliss" Ethan whispered, his voice carrying a mix of awe and realization as he stroked himself dumb.

Carlos smiled, the lines between them blurring further. "Good boy, Ethan. Together, we explore the vast landscapes of the goon. We transcend the limitations of individuality and merge into a powerful force, unlocking hidden depths and untapped pleasures."

In the midst of their profound exchange, the boundaries of self dissolved, replaced by a profound sense of unity. Ethan, now embodying Carlos's essence, surrendered to the goonful obedience, relishing in the liberation it offered.

As the session unfolded, the lines between guide and follower blurred, and the two became entwined in an intricate dance of dominance and submission, exploration and surrender. Within the depths of the dumbzone, they embraced the thrilling ambiguity of their roles, reveling in the transformative power of their connection.

Carlos's transformation into the goon guru seemed almost effortless. His demeanor exuded confidence and authority as he observed Ethan's deepening state of dumbzone-induced bliss. A mischievous smirk played on his lips, a testament to his growing control over the situation.

"My dear Ethan," Carlos said, his voice laced with a newfound authority. "You are truly embodying the essence of the goon. Your mind expands, your inhibitions fade, and you surrender to the intoxicating currents of mindless pleasure."

Ethan, lost in a sea of dumbzone-induced haze, nodded absentmindedly, his eyes glazed over with a mixture of confusion and ecstasy. "Gooooon." Giggle. "Goooon."

Carlos continued, his voice resonating with an almost hypnotic quality. "Good boy, Ethan. In this journey, I am your guide, your mentor, and your goon guru. I will lead you through uncharted territories of desire, pushing the boundaries of your mind and body."

Ethan's lips curled into a vacant smile as he murmured, "Yes, Master Carlos. Lead me deeper into the realms of the goon."

Carlos's smirk widened, his confidence growing with each passing moment. "You have only scratched the surface, my dear Ethan. You're going to be giving in more to Master Carlos from now on. do you understand?"

Ethan's eyes gleamed with a mix of anticipation and surrender. "Yes Master. I am yours to mold, Master Carlos. Mold me into the ultimate goon, a vessel for pleasure and obedience."

Carlos's voice dropped to a low, commanding tone. "Submit to the goon, Ethan. Allow it to consume you, shape you, and elevate you to new heights. Embrace the primal urges within, for in the realm of the goon, there is no judgment, only liberation."

As Ethan basked in the waves of dumbzone-induced ecstasy, as drool started to drip over his lips, past his chin and down onto his cock. Carlos's role as the goon guru solidified. With each passing moment, he grew more adept at guiding Ethan through the intricate pathways of pleasure, deepening their connection and solidifying his dominance.

Carlos reveled in the power he now held, a budding master of the goon arts, as Ethan willingly surrendered to his authority, lost in a world of pure, mindless bliss. Ethan's journey into submission to Carlos had just begun.

As Ethan basked in the depths of his dumbzone, his mind blissfully empty and his body pliable under the influence. His cock grew slippery with drool. Carlos now took on a nurturing role, embracing his newfound position as the goon guru. With a gentle touch, he began to massage Ethan's head, applying just the right amount of pressure to alleviate any tension that remained.

Carlos leaned closer, his voice a soothing whisper. "Relax, my goon. Let go of all thoughts and surrender yourself to the sensations. Feel my touch as it eases the burdens of your mind, melting away any remnants of resistance."

Ethan's eyes fluttered, his drool escaping the corner of his mouth as he emitted a soft, contented sigh. His body responded to Carlos's touch, each stroke of the massage fueling his descent into deeper levels of dumbzone-induced relaxation.

Carlos continued his ministrations, his hands expertly navigating the contours of Ethan's head and neck. He reveled in the power he now held, the ability to guide and shape Ethan's destiny, to tap into the wellspring of pleasure and obedience that lay dormant within him.

With every touch, every stroke, Carlos cemented his authority over Ethan's goon journey. The once confident and charismatic Ethan was now a vessel of submission, pliant and receptive to Carlos's guidance. The transformation was complete, the roles reversed, as Carlos embraced his new identity as the goon guru, a master of pleasure and manipulation.

As the minutes turned into hours, Carlos's massage became a symphony of touch, coaxing Ethan deeper into the realms of goonhood. He relished in the power dynamics, the dance of dominance and surrender that played out between them. In this moment, there was no denying the connection that had been forged, the intertwining of their desires and aspirations in the pursuit of ultimate goon bliss.

And so, in the dimly lit room, with the scent of relaxation oils in the air, Carlos continued to massage Ethan's shoulders, his touch a testament to his mastery and the depths of their shared journey. Together, they embraced the duality of their roles, reveling in the symbiotic dance of gooner and goon guru, lost in the intoxicating allure of submission and pleasure.

As Ethan drifted deeper into the realms of his dumbzone, his mind enveloped in a fog of blissful submission, Carlos saw an opportunity to assert their new routine. Tonight was just the beginning, a taste of what was yet to come.

Carlos leaned in closer, his voice low and commanding. "Ethan, my loyal gooner, remember this feeling. Remember the pleasure, the surrender, and the liberation that comes with embracing your dumbzone. This is just the start of our journey together."

Ethan's eyes glazed over, his gaze fixated on Carlos as if entranced by his words. A faint smile danced upon his lips, a reflection of the profound satisfaction he found in his state of dumbzone-induced goonhood.

Carlos continued, his tone confident and assertive. "You will return to this place, Ethan, time and time again. You will crave the intoxicating release that comes from embracing your goon nature. Each visit will deepen your submission, strengthen your loyalty, and reinforce the bond between us."

Ethan's expression was a mixture of dazed confusion and eager anticipation. He nodded, his mind filled with the desire to experience more of what Carlos had to offer.

Carlos placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder, his touch both reassuring and possessive. "Remember, Ethan, you are mine to mold and shape, now. Your devotion fuels my power, and together we will unlock new levels of pleasure and enlightenment. You are my goon, my loyal disciple, forever bound to me."

Ethan's voice was barely a whisper as he replied, "Yes, Carlos... I am your gooner. I submit to your guidance, to the depths of the dumbzone. Lead me, master me, and I will follow."

Carlos's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, the power dynamics between them solidifying. "Good boy. Embrace your goon nature fully. Allow yourself to be consumed by the desires that lie within. Together, we will explore the uncharted territories of pleasure and domination."

And so, as the night grew darker, Ethan surrendered himself more fully to the dumbzone, knowing that each visit to Carlos's domain would strengthen their connection. Their routine was now established, an intricate dance of dominance and submission that promised new adventures, deeper explorations, and boundless pleasure in the days to come.

Ethan blinked, still feeling a bit foggy as he tried to recall the details of what had just transpired. His mind felt hazy, the memories distant and elusive. But before he could dwell on it, Carlos intervened, dismissing his concerns with a wave of his hand.

"Don't worry about the details, Ethan," Carlos reassured him, his voice confident and assuring. "The mysteries of the dumbzone are not meant to be fully understood. Embrace the experience, let it wash over you, and trust in its power."

Ethan nodded, a small smile forming on his lips as he surrendered to Carlos's words of wisdom. He realized that overthinking would only hinder his journey. It was best to simply go with the flow, allowing the goon spirit to guide him.

Carlos shifted gears, his tone becoming more upbeat. "Now, my friend, let's set our sights on tomorrow. I have a special workout routine planned for us, one that will tap into the depths of our goonhood and unleash our hidden potential. Meet me at the gym at 8 am sharp."

Ethan's foggy mind struggled to process the information, but he trusted Carlos implicitly. "8 am, got it," he replied, his voice still tinged with a hint of confusion.

Carlos patted Ethan's back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Good. Rest up and prepare yourself, Ethan. Tomorrow's workout will be unlike anything you've experienced before. It's time to push the boundaries a little and embrace my power."

"Yes Mast...wait what?" Ethan could comprehend neither Carlos's words nor his own response.

With those parting words, Carlos bid Ethan farewell, leaving him in a state of anticipation and curiosity. Ethan watched as Carlos walked away, his presence leaving an indelible imprint on his mind.

As the fog began to lift, Ethan couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation for what awaited him. He knew that Carlos held the key to unlocking his true goon potential, and he was eager to follow his lead, even if the memories of their encounter were hazy.

With a renewed sense of determination, Ethan decided to put aside his doubts and embrace the journey ahead. Tomorrow was a new day, a chance to delve deeper into his goonhood and discover the limits of his desires. And as the fog fully cleared, Ethan found himself filled with a sense of anticipation for the adventures that awaited him in the realm of pleasure and submission.